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Sherlock was home for the day. Everyone else was busy at work, and with no cases and boring clients, it meant he could barricade the doors and focus some time on himself. There was no chance of a disturbance, which meant the TV could be blared as loud as he pleased. Not that he was paying much attention to it – the DVD served as little more than background noise.
Regression swamped his mind easily, and he floated in the soothing headspace as he sat in the living room among toys and books. Without supervision, he couldn’t decide on a single activity, so he decided to set out all he had available; at least then he could flit between them all.
However, it also meant he was not coaxed into wearing protection – he had determined he was a big boy who could use the toilet by himself. Besides, he wasn’t normally allowed to play with his nappies anyway, so he wasn’t sure if he’d be permitted to change it alone when nobody was there. A small voice in the back of his head begged him to warn someone that he’d regressed, even if he was still left by himself. That he would get into trouble if he hid it from them and an incident occurred. The bigger voice pushed it aside in favour of the brightly coloured toys strewn around his legs.
Chattering to Otto, he ignored his surroundings, and even his own needs. There was no time to eat or drink or go potty, not when there were games to play, toys to snuggle and movies to watch! His bladder twanged, but it could wait, and he was confident he could hold it. Lock sucked his dummy harder and moved to sit on his heels so he could squeeze his thighs together.
Wooden blocks and various sets of lego were the foundations of a physical recreation of his mind palace. He wanted to make it look as accurate as possible despite his limited resources, which meant he had to concentrate hard. Tiny lego figures depicted him and John as he showed the doctor about the halls, surrounded by giant cuddly toys and a river made of soft blankets. Next on the list was the windows. He had several transparent plastic lego pieces for the main panes, but nothing to replicate the stain glass he wanted in the library. Unless…
A set of brightly coloured markers greeted him a few paces away, neglected messily from when he’d been colouring earlier. Left abandoned, they now beckoned him closer, the perfect tool for creating his very own stain glass without actually causing permanent damage to his lego windows. He wriggled on his heel for a moment, breath hitched as his bladder twinged. This was much more important than a bathroom break. Unfortunately, he was left with little choice.
Lock tipped forward onto all fours, only intending to lean across and snag a couple of markers with his fingertips. As he adjusted, however, the seal his foot had created on his crotch was unlatched, and he could hold on no longer. At first he whined, looking down to see the first darkened patch spread through his boxers and then shorts. As it grew, the living room fell into silence – Lock speechlessly listening to the hiss of urine and the drips as it trickled over be the floor in a puddle of warmth.
It felt good at first, the same comforting heat his nappy provided, but without the layers of padding it rapidly cooled, sticky and smelly. Initially he was frozen, brain stuttering to catch up with what had just happened, that he was all alone and needed to rid of the evidence as soon as possible, alongside headspace inhibiting his normal thinking patterns.
When he gradually overcame the shock, slumped in a cold puddle of ammonia, he felt burning tears spring to his eyes. He was going to be in so much trouble! Normally he wouldn’t clean, nor was he permitted to touch any chemical products, but today could be an exception. Lock got to his feet, shivering as the movement further cooled the urine against his skin and made his way to the kitchenette. Kitchen roll, and lots of it, was dumped on the worst of the puddle to soak up whilst he stripped in the bathroom.
Unsure what to do, as daddy or papa were usually there to take care of accidents, he used wipes to clean his skin lest he get a rash before regarding his soggy clothes. Some of the pee had soaked into the hem of his t-shirt, and all of his clothes were unusable. If he did a good enough clean-up job, John would never know he’d had an accident, but that meant he had to hide his clothes. He couldn’t take them to Mrs Hudson, nor could he discard them in the hamper where they’d wet the rest of the washing.
Lock tapped his chin, recoiling at the smell of ammonia on his fingertips, before an idea sprung to mind. The clothes were shoved into a plastic bag, tied off as tight as he could manage, and slid under the bed, out of sight, out of mind. He could retrieve them later when he had the mind, time and privacy to wash them properly. Now back to the living room.
Immediately upon entering the kitchen the distinct odour hit him, undoubtedly permeating both the floorboards and the underfloor if he didn’t do something fast. In a panic, he grabbed a second plastic bag to shove wads of wet kitchen roll into until the floor was damp but the puddle was gone. He donned latex surgical gloves, a box he’d stolen from John’s work bag, and got on all fours to (carefully) spray at the floor until it was soaked. He was frustrated to find that it barely masked the smell – in fact, now his accident was even more perceptible as it reacted with the antibacterial spray.
Reluctance brought hesitancy to his ministrations, although the thought of John’s poor reaction to the state of the living room geared him into action, and he began scrubbing with all his might until he was sweating profusely. Lock supposed he’d done a good job – the floor was clean, bar a darkened patch where the wooden boards had absorbed the various liquids, which was easily hidden by an area rug.
It didn’t smell half as bad as it had ten minutes prior, and with the blinds pulled over, Lock opened every window in the flat to air out what still lingered in the air. The plastic bag containing the saturated paper towels was shoved deep into the pit of the bin, hidden among food and dumped experiments and the likes, whereas the bottle of Zoflora and what remained of their kitchen roll supply were set back in their places, as if they had been untouched.
Proud of his work, Holmes tidied up the bulk of his toys, mostly shoving them back into boxes and pushing them under his bed beside the bag of sodden clothes, and redressed; this time with protection. A second accident was not on his list of experiments today. Or any day, for that matter. By the time he was finished, or what he deemed acceptable, the little detective was exhausted.
His curls stuck to his head uncomfortably, so he splashed his face with cool water, only to dump half of it down his fresh top. Alas, it was only water, and he trodded back to the living room for another sniff. It was barely noticeable now, he reckoned. With a heavy sigh, Lock gathered up Otto and a blankie – thank goodness they had been saved from the stream of wee – to snuggle on the couch in front of cartoons.
Admittedly, Lock had gotten a touch too comfortable, and had taken an involuntary nap. He awoke to the sound of shoes, John’s shoes more importantly, clunking up the seventeen steps to the front door. There was a pregnant pause between his arrival and the opening of the front door, giving the little an opportunity to twist his body and peer at the entrance through his lashes. Cuteness could cure any kind of anger, he’d learned.
When John finally entered, he shivered. “It’s fuckin’ freezing in he- oh. Hi Lock.”
“Hi Jahn!” Lock chirped, pretending he hadn’t heard the curse word. Watson kept his jacket on, but toed off his shoes as he delved further into the sitting room.
“Why are all the windows open love?” John moved to close the front windows.
“Got too hot playin’.” He replied nonchalantly. Lying was bad, but a few little white lies couldn’t hurt, could they?
Watson sighed. “So you needed to open all of them? You could catch a cold, silly thing.”
“Nuh uh, colds are viruses, and-” he was cut off by a raised palm.
“I know darling, I’m a doctor remember?” John stepped closer. “Why didn’t you tell me you were li-”
Lock feigned ignorance, as if he hadn’t just witnessed his flatmate walk directly into the wet patch on the floor. “You workin’. I was okay.”
“Right.” John took a breath, closed his eyes and counted. When he was calm again, he looked at the child. “What did I just step in?”
Lock shrugged. “Be honest with me. Did you have an accident?”
“No.” Lock knew he was caught red-handed. He’d replied too quickly, and now he was blushing. Busted.
John approached and sat on the edge of the coffee table so that they were inches apart. A stern expression darkened his features, and Lock curled up protectively. “Don’t lie to me. Did you pee on the floor?”
Holmes sagged and mumbled an affirmative. “Did you use Zoflora to clean it on your own?”
“Used Jahn’s gloves.” That was a slight relief, Watson thought. He decided to deal with that fact later.
“Right, right okay,” John sucked in a breath and assessed the room for the next steps. Lock eyed him owlishly. “Did you clean your skin?”
“Uhuh.” Lock snuggled further into his blanket, pout squished against Otto’s body. John nodded to himself and got to his feet.
First he needed to deal with the odour. There were several ways he could go about it: coffee grains to absorb the stench, hydrogen peroxide, bicarbonate soda. If he was going to ensure the floor was clean, without the risk of a toddler ingesting any accidentally, bicarbonate was the best solution. Rummaging in the kitchen, ignoring the eyes tracking his movements, John pulled out bicarbonate soda and white vinegar and a scrub brush he kept at the back of the bottom cupboard for cleaning.
“Wha’ doin’?” Lock questioned, propped on an elbow to watch.
John grunted as he crouched over the darkened floorboards. “Cleaning the floor darling.”
As he sprinkled a generous amount onto the floor, he felt warmth at his side as Lock came down to join him, blanket trailing behind. “I cleaned it.”
“I know you did love but it still smells like weewee. I don’t want you touching any of this, alright?” John used a calm voice but his eyes conveyed his sincerity. No littles would be getting sick if they could help it. “Why don’t you go start a bath?”
“For who?” Lock asked, shuffling to rest his head on Watson’s shoulder despite the awkward angle.
A kiss was pressed to the curls covering his temple. “You, silly.”
Lock frowned with a shake of his head. “I not need one.”
John cocked a brow. “Yes you do, a wipe isn’t enough love dove. Off you go.” There was no brook for argument, though a groan was heard as Lock toddled off to fiddle with the taps. It’d keep him distracted for a few minutes at least.
When the bicarbonate soda had time to soak in, he added another sprinkle before applying the white vinegar. Almost instantly it frothed and bubbled, drawing up dirt and urine as it worked. John was careful not to do too good of a job – then he’d have a paler patch than the rest of the floor which would surely be more noticeable than a dark stain.
John grabbed the brush made of coarse boar hair and scrubbed vigorously until the froth was equally distributed. He’d let it soak for a little while longer, turning his attentions to the suspiciously quiet bathroom. Instead of finding a mess, however, he found a toddler sat cross-legged on the mat, watching the trickling taps in awe. It was as if he’d never seen it in action before, barely acknowledging John’s presence bar a sluggish blink.
“You okay darling?” It wasn’t often Lock was so subdued and reserved, though it was more a worry than a pleasant break. He looked up, eyes slightly glazed and shrugged.
Watson didn’t push for an explanation, instead setting his hands on towels and clean pyjamas whilst also testing the water. When it was done, the bubble bath sneakily added by a certain little boy was higher than the lip of the tub, but if it kept him happy, John had no complaints.
“In we go mister, that’s it.” John helped him into the tub and as he settled on his bare bum Lock couldn’t help but giggle as bubbles instantly cocooned him up to his clavicle.
There was no delay – Watson intended for this to be a hasty affair considering he was already exhausted preceding the impromptu biohazard disaster – although Lock’s wistful expression returned as he palmed at the suds.
“Jahn angry?” It was a loaded question, one he didn’t answer until he’d considered his words.
“I’m disappointed that you didn’t let any of us know you were little and alone. But am I angry about your accident? Of course not. An accident is just that: an accident. Not your fault love.”
Lock’s thumb was tugged away from his mouth before it was inundated with soapy bubbles. “I ignore it.”
“Sorry?” John asked as he worked, keeping his eyes away from Lock’s so that he didn’t feel scrutinised.
“I need weewee but ignore it.” He admitted sheepishly. Whatever the reaction, he felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest.
John frowned. Bit not good. “Were you wearing a pull up?” Lock shook his head. “Why not?”
“Forgot. Wanted to play.” He shrugged.
“Can’t fault you for that, I suppose.” He was a toddler, after all. A bloody smart one at that.
Lock snivelled, on the brink of tears. “I sorry.”
John sighed, more tired than peeved. “It’s alright darling. Leg up, good boy.”
“You had a long day at work an’ now I peed and you got to deal with me.” Lock said sadly, head dipped in shame.
“Hey hey,” John lifted his chin by a single index finger. “I don’t have to deal with you at all. You’re a pleasure to take care of, okay chuck? After I’ve cleaned up we can have some cuddles, hm? How’s that sound?”
Lock nodded, a shadow of a smile painting his lips. “There’s my good boy. Come on then, let’s get you dry.”
“I do it?” John paused, regarding the bundle of toddler.
“Are you sure?” Lock nodded again with enthusiasm.
“Big boy! I can do it.” He was adamant he was capable, snatching the towel to dry himself. John left him to it, dead-set on a final cleanup in the living room before he deemed it acceptable.
Upon further consideration, John got up from creaking knees and opened the windows to rid of the various smells. The room no longer smelt like urine, but with the mix of chemicals he couldn’t be too careful. Once the brush was rinsed and tidied away he checked on Lock’s progress. The boy was in his cotton top but still naked from the waist down.
“What are you doing silly boy?” Lock giggled and wriggled his bum on the bed.
“Nakey!” He declared, as if he wasn’t flashing John.
“I can see that spud,” John paused, sniffing the air. Lock suddenly curled in on himself and was met with narrowed eyes. “Did you pee again?”
“No!” Lock said all too quickly. John hummed and stalked closer.
“Why can I smell weewee then?”
“Not!” He squawked.
“Yes I can.” John traced the stench back to his charge, but another sniff ruled him out as the source. “Where is it, Lock? Did you hide your clothes?”
How could he have known? Lock thought, baffled. Usually it was him making deductions, but now John was onto him, and he was in trouble for sure. Holmes’ cheeks flushed a lovely pink as he nervously nibbled at the tip of his thumb.
“Locky?” John sang, creeping onto the bed. It was predatory, the kind that meant he’d be facing a merciless tickle monster any second if he didn’t own up.
“Under bed! No get me!” He screeched, speech garbled.
As if a spell had been broken, John got back to his feet, all evidence of his previous behaviour dissipated. “Thank you.” Before the clothes could be retrieved, however, there was a bare bum in need of some padding. Thankfully Lock was compliant, stepping into the pull-up and helping to feed his long spider legs into the pyjamas bottoms.
“You shouldn’t hide your clothes if you have an accident. They’ll stain and be ruined and the whole house will stink for days, okay? Better to admit you had one and let us help mister.” John’s tone was light but stern.
“Sorry Jahn…” Lock wore his best guilty expression paired with a practiced set of doe eyes.
As expected, the doctor melted. “That’s alright spud.”
The clothes were sent straight to the wash with a handful of other clothes from the hamper. As John returned to Sherlock’s bedroom, he slid the privacy door shut between the kitchenette and living room to keep the chill out. Lock was snuggled under the covers, laptop perched on his knees, Otto and his blankie under his chin. John could agree that a cuddle, some snacks and a movie sounded perfect after such a trying day. He wouldn’t change Lock for the world.